Come to bed?

               -I'm not tired yet. But I'll come for a little while.

So begins the bedtime story I recite in my head.  You and me were the stars, the loveable protagonists character-foiled by the scars that always found a way to nose between us under the cover of darkness and love.  Like the family dog who is always welcome (even when sometimes it's not).

And although the story is worn so thoroughly it frays my cochlea with overuse of the thought, I still grow hot to see you beside me once again. Even though I know how it ends, that when my eyes close you'll be on your way again- when the morning comes, as sure as dawn, you'll be lying next to me.

Maybe nothing has changed,

and perhaps the mend sewn deep into the pages of memory is the hope that when my eyes slowly open

there you will be.

For always.

The End

i felt like wearing red today
like a streak of lipstick
or a drop of blood
among the grey air
and the blue snow
i just wanted to make it known
that i was alive today
in my crimson cloud
in my scarlet shroud
in all these bright alliterations
each word becoming the next
the day just flowed like that
and with red around my neck
i was calm
this colour never fails
to bring me down to earth
to bring me round again
to bring the oxygen forth into my lungs
and red like fire, i breathe in
wrapping the maroon shadow closer
cinching it in at the waist
becoming compact, safe, indestructible
becoming real, tangible, solid and contained
red coursing through my veins, i am here again
and the white clouds beckon me upwards
but this pigment keeps me down on earth
and i felt like wearing red today
for fear of fading
back to grey

Maybe it is numbing cold,
the weather there,
as you taste the snowflakes on your tongue
and picture us making angels on your porch
while still stealing the warmth from the breath
of one another.

Maybe it is not so white until December's wake
and when it rains, it pours.
Your car is probably stuck in the snow
when I was busy making a snowman
that I couldn't wait
to destroy with you:
we don't need anyone else.

I cannot wait to see
what winter is like in Utah.

Till then, I will just reminisce
of salt mountains
beside the oceans.

Une lettre français!
 
Ne jamais révéler ce qui vérités que vous ressentez.
Les sentiments ont été conjuré. il vous a fait si triste.
Sentiments inhumés trouvés.
Ne savais pas que vous aviez.
Confus et si peur.
Mon co-accusés faisaient.
Dans un traumatisme.
Où l'amour a volé son armure.
Tout pour une dose de amore honnête.
Un visage toujours caché afin qu'il ne se perde pas.

La véritable amitié de la vie, la cause de ce gel.
Une fois très fort, maintenant si tristement perdu.
Vous a envoyé une carte pour le moment de l'année.
Probablement jeté dans la poubelle de la peur.

Je pourrais vous aimer jamais plus.
Cela aurait pu être plus jamais.
Mais maintenant, ma douce amie reposer en paix.
Peut sommeil éternel pas venir trop tôt.
Pour la gloire de l'amitié coincé au fond de cette tombe!
Avec l'amour d'un ami poétique.
Puisse notre amitié vraiment jamais de fin!
par ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (Tous droits réservés)

And
I feel like an onion. Layer after layer all
gone with nothing to say,
nothing but skin.

They're kissing and holding hands and
I think I'm going to be sick.

and,
I've come to realize that almost every poem
carries a cigarette, and that I'm burning away.

and,
I've spent years dying to die
aching for you to return my calls.

and,
I've spent $5 a week,
replacing your breathes
and promised pain.

They're whispering and telling each other how much they are in love and
he holds her close.

and,
now all I have is the hope that this rain will wash away our memories.

There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy

What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching ******* and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ******* seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such  scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly

Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than ******-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-17/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-ii/
(best read in order)

The stone walls are closing in on me and I’m hungry

   So hungry

   I’m on my knees begging silently to let my anguish end. I could have made it good. I wanted the pleasure more than the means to the end. I just needed a taste to know that I was alive once again but I’m left trapped. The walls closing in on me are a testament that I can never escape my existence. Even my fantasies are not enough.

  So hungry!

  How did I get back here? Inside my prison?  Inside my own destiny? I am stronger than the person I was so many, many years ago but weaker than I want to be. I rose above the hand that life dealt to me and I have been a major player in history but I can’t rise above the fact that I’m left weeping inside my stone prison and I’m alone, again, and hungry.

   Where did things go wrong?

   The dark alley that I found you in was perfect. You were as alone, as lonely as me. But I didn’t want to make you feel less than special than you were to me. The restaurant, the candles, the sense of intimacy… It was all perfect. My imagination was at an all time high. I sensed your urgency.

  I projected images as arousing as I could make them.  I lived inside my own fantasies and I wanted you to want me as I wanted you. And I wanted you so desperately. Our dalliance was more than a mere moment. You were special to me. Not everything I projected was from my own mind. I felt your acceptance. Your willingness to indulge… Your complete and utter resolve to be what I wanted you to be.

   But now you’re gone. Seemingly crumpled to dust. Escaping from me just like every other thing that I held dear.

   You were not a figment of my imagination, even though everything around us was, but you didn’t stay and now I’m the one that will pay. I chose wrong. I understand that now. I’m sorry but please understand… I’m so hungry.

   I curl upon the dirt floor to contemplate my mistake. The tears from my eyes are from frustration and anger and maybe just a little self indulgence that I can’t hold onto the fantasy. I breathed upon warm skin but I'm left with the bitter taste of myself upon my lips. It's the taste of me that leaves me bereft.

   The mist that settles upon me like a blanket and hugs me in a gentle caress is more comfort than I can take. I don't remember much but I remember one thing...

   *I’m so hungry

The rust color leaves crunch beneath the soles of my leather boots, as I nuzzle my face into my wool knit scarf. The beaten asphalt path is the canvas and the pomegranate leaves are the splattered drops of paint sprinkling the trail. The cold, biting winds of autumn strip the weeping willow trees of their tears. Drooping, bent branches of the willows and birches beg for me to stray from the path into their welcoming, bark-covered embrace, promising not a single splinter. Whirlwinds of crispy leaves grace the peaks and valleys of the meadows, with so much life instilled in their dying veins. The nostalgic hint of chimney smoke wafts along the trail, and I yearn for the warmth that will nourish my chapped face. With a warm core and the wind seeping into the layers of my skin, the splitting wood of the maple branches guide me home.